The Way That We Rust
by WrittenAnonymous
Summary: Beth grinned, holding up a box. Daryl looked at it for a moment before rolling his eyes. "Hey, you might want some of these," Beth said, "for when you find that special woman." Daryl snorted, catching the box when Beth threw it at him. "When will that be?" He took a second look. "Nah, these won't fit. Too small." Beth let out a strangled laugh-moan thing, her cheeks flaming. "Oh."
1. Chapter 1

**The Way That We Rust**

**Daryl Dixon:**

She had made it a long way. Longer than he thought she would be able to manage. Longer than _he _would have been able to manage if he had just witnessed his father's – or in his case, Merle's – decapitation. She had tripped and stumbled through the forest, tears streaming down her face for miles of up and downhill terrain, the occasional walker staggering out at her from behind the trees.

Daryl took each one out with an arrow. After each kill, he took his time disengaging the arrow from the walker's head – his supply was dwindling and he didn't know the next time they'd come across a Bass Pro for all of his camping and recreational needs. _Camping and recreation my ass, _he thought dully as he tore another arrow from a walker's head, rotting flesh and skin and brains hanging from it when he held it up. He shook off what he could and wiped the remaining goo on his pants.

When he glanced back at Beth, it finally appeared that she couldn't go any further. He kept quiet, because he knew there was nothing to say. At least nothing _he _could say. The only person who might be able to comfort her was her father, and he would never be able to comfort her again. Beth's face was pale and her eyes were bloodshot. When she met his gaze, it seemed to finally dawn on her that it was just the two of them.

She spun on her heel and sprinted in the direction of a bush several yards away. Daryl was half convinced that she was so disgusted with the idea of being stuck with him that the only other option she felt she had was to flee. The idea would be funny under other circumstances.

She fell to her knees and vomited violently into a bush. Daryl watched without blinking. It seemed like an eternity before she was finished. She fell back on her ass, her little shoulders hunched in and her blonde hair full of twigs and leaves from the damn bush. After a couple of seconds, she took a deep breath, wiped her mouth, and stood up.

Beth trudged back toward Daryl, past him, and deeper into the forest. She was a fighter, this one. A fighter without a weapon, Daryl was painfully aware of. He was short on arrows. They didn't have a gun, and even if they did, they would be without bullets. As Daryl jogged to keep up with her, the dull sting on his side that had been bothering him since they left the prison started screaming. He had tried to ignore the sticky blood dampening his shirt, but now that the pain was reaching it's peak, it was impossible to push aside. He gritted his teeth and kept going.

He had to get them to a road, where they might find a vehicle. His adrenaline was evaporating quick, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be forced to access the wound. He wanted to hold it off as long as he could, because he had a feeling it was a lot worse than it felt. Stupid logic, but they didn't exactly have first-aid supplies out the ass. He would deal with it when it got bad.

He had a job to do.

They continued through the woods for awhile longer, but night was beginning to fall and Beth was starting to grow weak. Daryl had been expecting it – she had seemed to vomit up everything she had eaten in the past week and then some, after all. They were going to need to find some sort of shelter soon.

After another half hour, they were interrupted by a walker staggering out from a clearing of trees. Normally, Daryl could smell a walker before he saw it. He hadn't smelt it before it came at them, so he could tell that it was newly bitten. Dead a day at the most. It collapsed on the ground and he rolled it over with his foot. Poor bastard. After he retrieved his arrow, he plucked a small knife from the walker's belt and slipped it into his own back pocket.

"Must be a camp around," Daryl said gruffly. It was the first thing he had said to Beth since they had left the prison. She stared at him unflinchingly. He took that at her willingness to find it and continued on, this time making sure he was close to her side. It was almost completely dark and he was anxious to find some sort of shelter to hunker down in. A cabin, a tent... A damn outhouse would be like a mansion at this point. Years ago, before all of this, he would be fine to make a pallet out of leaves and pass out there. But that wasn't an option.

He stopped, suddenly dizzy. He pressed a hand to his side and nearly groaned, half in agony, half in anger at his own weakness. He pulled his hand away, and saw the sticky, shiny, red liquid glimmering on his hand in the moonlight.

Beth gasped. "Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?"

"'M fine," he mumbled, but she all but lunged for his side and yanked his shirt up. He tried to swat her away but he was clumsy and weak.

Beth swore, looking up at him, her big blue eyes reflecting the moon. Why was the moon _everywhere?_ "Were you shot?"

"I don' fuckin' know. No," Daryl snarled, trying to pull his shirt down but she grabbed his wrist and held his hand up, away from his side. "Let go."

"Stop it, Dixon!" Beth snapped. He watched her, interested now, as she stupidly swiped at the blood on his side, and groaned when he felt a searing pain shoot through body. He tried to muffle the noise. He had probably attracted a couple of walkers. He lifted the bow. Beth was livid. "It feels like a bullet graze... Stop moving! It's bleeding more. We have to get you somewhere where I can look at it."

"Whaddya think I'm doin'?" he mumbled, staggering forward, hating that he had to lean on Beth so he could walk. She reached across him and pulled his knife from his belt. Sometimes Daryl forgot that she had taken out her fair share of walkers over the couple years they'd spend together. She wasn't trained in hand-to-hand combat, but she knew what to expect. She wasn't useless. He wasn't going to let her be useless.

"How far do you think we are?"

"Couple miles, maybe," Daryl said. There was a crack a few feet behind him. He spun, too fast for his condition, and shot. He missed. He was off balance. The walker staggered forward, seemingly enraged, and reached-

He shot and the walker went down.

He groaned, clutching his side, only making the pain worse. Beth struggled to keep his weight up. "Shh," she whispered frantically. "There could me more..." She dragged him forward, and he tried his best not to protest. He didn't have a choice. It was either find shelter or be eaten alive.

It seemed to go downhill from there. Daryl was starting to see spots, and there were two moons both located in the wrong place in the sky. He could feel Beth shaking under his weight and he knew it was only a matter of time before she wouldn't be able to move him anymore.

He should do the valiant thing, and tell her to leave him and run as fast as should until she found some sort of shelter. But, she didn't know how to use the crossbow and a knife was little help when you were surrounded by five or six walkers. She was as good as dead on her own than she was half-dragging his body through the woods.

They walked for hours – or Daryl thought it was hours. His eyes were nearly closed and he was sweating profusely. From very, very far away, he heard Beth say, "Oh, God. Thank you, God."

She started heaving him up a steep slope, and he tried move his feet to help her. It proved to be too much and everything went black.

…

Beth, by a horrifically magnificent stroke of luck, stumbled upon a small dirt road. On this dirt road was a broken down box truck. She had never felt so lucky in her entire life. Daryl was near to dead. She needed to get him in there. He was on the ground now, having passed out a few seconds before. She pulled him near the rear door, and saw that the door lowered into a ramp. She breathed a sigh of relief. She was not going to be able to lift this man made of two hundred pounds of muscle off the ground and into a truck.

Keeping an eye out for walkers, Beth lowered Daryl to the ground and unlatched the door, gently lowering it to the ground to avoid making any noise. In the darkness, she could see that there were a couple blankets, a few pillows, and a half-empty bottle of water sticking out from under the seat near the front. More than she could ask for. As soon as she got him situated, she would have to make a run to find some medical supplies. She pulled him up the ramp, and into the box truck. She could see a few walkers ambling toward them in the distance so she quickly hopped out and pushed the cargo door shut again. Beth darted back around the truck and entered through the passenger's door, closing it and pushing the lock down, and doing the same with the driver's door.

After crawling back in the truck and pulling Daryl as close to the cab as possible, hoping to get some light, she pulled his shirt up to look at the wound. It was a bullet graze, she could tell. Not _too _deep, but deep enough. At least it wasn't gushing blood. Unscrewing the bottle of water, she lifted it up to her nose-

_Whisky. _

Never in her life had she been happy to see even an ounce of alcohol – not after her father's problem with alcoholism. Tonight, however... She could not be more grateful.

Beth held the bottle between her knees as she removed his winged vest and awkwardly pulled the edge of Daryl's shirt up to her mouth and ripped a hole in it with her teeth. It tasted of blood and sweat. Daryl Dixon: the bloodiest and sweatiest of them all. She tore it straight up to the neck line and removed the shirt as well, then proceeded to tear a strip off.

After folding the strip into a neat square, she poured a small amount of the alcohol on to it and cleaned up the surrounding area of the wound. Finally, she poured some of the alcohol directly on the wound. There might be a little bit of tissue damage with the use of alcohol, but at least that would take away some of the pain when he woke up. If he woke up.

_Shut up, Beth. You have a job to do, _she thought.

After pouring a bit more alcohol on the wound, she searched around for a semi-clean piece of fabric. Yanking one of the pillowcases off the pillows, she ripped the seam horizontal and then diagonal, and rolled it horizontally to make a long strip of fabric. She looped it around Daryl's body, making sure and draped across the wound, and tied it tight.

"I'll be back," she said strongly, feeling his forehead. He was burning up. _No goodbyes. Not from you, not from me. _

Without a pause, she took another pillow case, made sure she had his knife on her belt, crawled back out the passenger's door, and took off at a jog down the dirt road, the moon leading her way.

…

It was about two and half hours before she came across a couple of old houses on the edge of the forest. Beth had managed to narrowly avoid four or five walkers on her way there. She was excellent at being quiet, so it was easy to sneak past them. She ended up only having to physically take out one of them. It wasn't very hard either, because it was missing both of its hands. It was a straight stab to the head.

It was odd, being alone in this world. This was the first time Beth had completely been alone since she this had all happened. Being alone, having to fend for herself without the help of anybody else, made her feel like the end of the world was happening all over again. The only thing that kept her from breaking down was the thought of Daryl Dixon, sick and alone in that box truck miles away, counting on her to heal him.

He might be all she had left in this world. Strange.

As Beth made her way toward the first house, she listened for walkers. She knew she was going to run into three or four, if not dozens. She would have to fight them off or find a distraction. One way or another, she was going to have to deal with them. When she heard the first one, she was expecting it.

He ambled around the corner of the house, and came at her, arms extended.

The smell was putrid. She held her breath as she dodged around him and swiftly plunged Daryl's knife into the side of his head. The second walker, on the other hand, seemed to come out of nowhere. She came up behind Beth and grabbed her shoulder. It took everything in her power not to scream. Twisting out of the walker's grasp, Beth aimed the knife at her head. She missed, but aimed again. The female walker went down.

She examined them both, and found that the man had a pistol protruding from his belt. Snatching it up, she checked the chamber. Nine rounds. Beth wondered when her luck was going to run out. It was an eerie feeling. Everything was going so well – considering the circumstances – and she knew that it was only a matter of time before things went from bad to worse.

Beth knew that holding the gun in her hands would only tempt her to use it, so she slipped it in her belt and held the knife. She slowly rounded the corner that the walkers came out of, seeing that they had came through a back gate. It was wide open, so she stepped through and analyzed the gated backyard. There was still one walker stumbling around. It hadn't seen her yet, so she quietly closed the gate. The walker turned so it's back was to her and she ran toward it. By the time it turned around, its arms outstretched, she had shoved the knife into its skull. Down it fell. She wiped the brains on her pants and walked toward the house.

Once she was inside, she did a preliminary search. It only smelled like dust inside the house, so she was fairly positive there were no walkers. Just to be safe, she was a little _too _thorough in her search, but she didn't want any walkers jumping out of a closet. When she was content that there were no walkers in the house, she pulled the pillowcase from her belt and began sweeping the house for supplies, starting with the medicine cabinets in the bathrooms.

In the hall bathroom, she found a bottle and a half of peroxide. Bandages. Gauze and tape. Ointment. Ibuprofen. In the master bathroom, she found some things that they would have been able to get by on without, but she took it anyway. A couple bars of soap. Hand sanitizer. Lip balm. Calamine lotion. A package of hair elastics. _Tampons. _A box of tissues.Latex gloves. Scissors.

Beth eyed the makeup that sat on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet sadly before moving on, knowing that it would be pointless and waste of space.

Pleased with her medicinal loot, she decided to search for another bag. The pillowcase was going to fill up quick. She scouted the master closet and found a medium sized duffle bag, draped it across her shoulder, and made her way into the kitchen. Telling by how well-stocked the house was, there had been people living here recently. She wondered if the walkers she had killed had previously lived in the home.

There were plenty of canned foods in the cabinets, but there were only a couple gallons of purified water. She filled up the duffle bag with anything she could find, including a can opener from one of the drawers.

After the kitchen, Beth rounded back to the master closet and pulled a few women's shirts and sweatshirts from hangers, as well few men's flannel shirts for Daryl. She had basically destroyed his only shirt, and he would need something if he woke up. _When_ he woke up.

The last thing she did in the bedroom was raid the underwear drawer in the dresser near the door. She didn't need anything spectacular, just something that was clean. She debated for a millisecond, and then searched the drawers for boxers. Daryl would never say anything, but he would be grateful. Once she had found them, she knew it was almost time to go.

Lastly, she searched the garage. All she found that would be of any use was a crowbar and a flashlight. There was a small truck parked inside the garage, and Beth had a suspicion that it might still run, especially if the family who had lived here before were recently turned. There was only one way to find out.

After tossing the duffle bag, pillowcase, flashlight, and crowbar in the bed of the truck, she cranked up the garage a few feet off the ground and got on her knees. Peering out at the yard, she was relieved to see that there were no walkers. She pushed the garage up all the way and darted out toward the first walker she had killed; the one who had the gun.

She knelt down and checked its pockets. There were a jingling of keys. She grinned, pulled them out, and prayed to God that the truck would run.

Once she was inside the truck, she put the key into the ignition and tried to start it up. The engine turned over, but didn't start. She tried again. Same result. Third time's a charm...

It roared to life.

Beth could not believe her luck. Either she was dreaming, or she had a guardian angel. She closed her eyes for a moment and thought of her father. _Thank you, _she thought. _Thank you for everything. _

Taking a deep breath, tears in her eyes, she put the truck in reverse and backed out of the garage. At the last minute, she jumped out of the truck and pulled the garage shut, just incase she and Daryl decided to take refuge there in the future. Might as well keep it as closed off from walkers as possible.

Now that she would get back to Daryl in a fraction of the time, her optimism was soaring. The truck flew down that dirt road. Thank heaven Maggie had taught her how to drive a stick shift, or she would have been clueless. The thought of Maggie and the others seemed to send pain shooting through her body. _Not now, _Beth thought. _You don't think about that now. _

The journey that had taken two and a half hours by foot took less than twenty minutes in the truck. Beth came to a halt by the box truck, keeping an eye out for walkers. There were a few in the distance, but they were far enough that Beth wasn't worried. She hopped out of the truck, pocketing the keys, and offloaded the loot from the trunk and into the box truck through the passenger's door.

Clambering back into the box truck, Beth finally allowed herself to look at Daryl. He was sickly pale and shaking in his sleep. Despite this, Beth was relieved that he wasn't knocked-out cold anymore. She took the pillowcase full of supplies and sat on her knees beside him.

A fair amount of blood had seeped through Beth's make-shift bandage, but that was expected. She untied the bandage around his torso and turned him on his side so she examine the wound more closely. It was still dark out, so it was difficult to see. Beth held her newly-found flashlight between her teeth and got a closer look.

It was about as bad as it was when she left, but not worse. She took the bottle of peroxide and poured some of it onto the wound. Daryl stirred in his sleep. Beth dabbed the surrounded skin with a bit of left over pillowcase, and poured some more. It fizzed and sizzled, and she blotted the area. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

That was as good as it was going to get, clearly. She dried the skin around it and placed a square of gauze over the wound, taping it in place. She needed to coax him awake so she could get some ibuprofen in his system. "Daryl," she whispered. Her voice was hoarse.

No response.

"Daryl!" she said a little louder. Nothing. She sighed and patted his face a little. "Wake up. Wake _up!_" Patted his face harder. "_Wake up!_" She slapped him full force across the face and his eyes fluttered open. He was hardly _awake, _but it would do. "Don't fall back asleep yet," she commanded. Daryl just looked confused and sick.

As Beth dumped four ibuprofen into the palm of her hand, Daryl started to fall back asleep. "Don't you dare, Daryl Dixon!" she snapped, grabbing one of the gallons of water. She shuffled forward on her knees and pulled his head onto her lap so it was slightly elevated. "Here," she said, forcing him to sip some of the water. The gallon was big and clumsy, and a little spilled down his neck, but stopping to get cups at the house seemed to be a little impractical.

She stuffed two of the ibuprofen into his mouth, and more water. "Swallow." She repeated the same with the last two. "Swallow," she said again.

There. It was done. That was all she could do for him.

After gracelessly shoving one of the pillows under his head, Beth took a few hearty gulps of water, her eyes already growing heavy with exhaustion now that her adrenaline was completely gone. She hardly had enough energy to reach across Daryl and take a pillow for herself. She kicked off her shoes, her feet aching – her entire body aching, for that matter – and allowed her head to fall onto the pillow. Her eyes drooped shut.

Right before Beth drifted into sleep, she heard Daryl mumble weakly, "You're a resourceful little thing, ain't ya?"

**A/N:**

**Yeah. I don't know. I'm having a really hard time waiting for TWD to start back up so I decided I would write this. Not my best, and pretty unoriginal. The whole "female character tends to male character" is so overused but whatever. And I think Bethyl is pretty farfetched, but that's probably why I'm so fascinated with the pairing. **

**I've only ever written HP fanfiction so I'm kind of nervous about writing for another fandom, because HP fans are like really supportive about everything. And Bethyl is deeply hated by a bunch of people. I mean, it's not that I ship Bethyl, or I don't ship Bethyl, it's more of that I'm really interested in seeing where they go with the whole Beth/Daryl dynamic... Eh. But we will see how this goes. I don't know if there's going to be a set story line or if it's going to just be a survival story. **

**You can review if you want! **


	2. Chapter 2

**The Way That We Rust**

**Daryl Dixon:**

Daryl opened his eyes, his body stiff and his hair stuck to his forehead with dried sweat. He was laying in a open-cab cargo truck, blankets and pillows beneath him. The sun was just beginning to rise, shining through the window. When he realized he was without a shirt, he glanced down to see his bloodied torso, and the otherwise clean patch of skin on his side where gauze was taped neatly. Then he remembered...

He shifted his body so he could see where Beth was sleeping only a few feet away from him, her arms and legs sprawled out and her hair spread out wildly over the pillow she slept on. On her arms and neck were dried walker guts and brains. Daryl knew instantly what she must have done the night before. He rubbed his eyes, wondering how she hadn't managed to get herself killed. Naturally, he was incredulous and pissed off, but the fierce pride he felt bubbling up inside of him overpowered that.

Beth had realized the severity of the situation, shut down, and did what she had to do. Exactly what Daryl would have done if he were in her shoes. Granted, it was stupid and reckless considering her lack of training and experience, but what else was she supposed to do? Let him die? Daryl might as well be the only thing the she had left. She was looking after her own.

He pushed himself up, aware of the graze on his side, catching sight of the loot on the passenger's seat. There was a duffle bag and a crow bar on the seat, and between him and Beth was a pillowcase full of supplies, half a gallon water, and a flashlight. He pulled the duffle bag off the seat and unzipped it, pleased to see she had gathered food and water. Ruffling around in the bag, he could see that she had found a few articles of clothing – men's clothing, that looked close to his size – and a few pairs of boxers. _Bless her, _he thought approvingly. Back in the day, boxer-briefs were his first choice, but due to the obvious circumstances, he took what he could get. It was either that or going commando.

"Are you awake?" a sleepy little voice asked from beside him.

Daryl cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said, hating the roughness of his voice. He sounded sick.

"How are you feeling?" Beth asked, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Daryl noticed she had a gun sticking out of her waistband, and he wondered why they never had her go on any runs back at the prison. She was obviously clever enough.

"Like shit," he answered honestly, pushing the bag off of his lap. "Where'd ya get all this?"

Beth pushed her hair out of her face and began to explain, starting with when he had passed out. Daryl could hear Merle in the back of his head. _You fainted, Darylena? Had to have this little girl drag you to safety? _

"Well," Beth said, "you passed out. I don't know, you must of got some sort of sixth sense or somethin' that tells you when you're close to safety, because we were only feet away from this truck. When I finally got ya in here, I found half a bottle of whisky and so I poured it on the the graze and sterilized it the best I could." Daryl listened as she calmly explained the night before, fascinated by her delicate, southern belle-like voice that was so much different from his rough, redneck-esque tone. "I knew that the whisky would probably do the trick, but I figured some real medical supplies wouldn't be a bad idea. So I took off runnin' down the road for about two and a half hours. I came across a little old house that had been overrun, so I got rid of the leftover walkers and took what I thought we might need." She stopped to inhale. "Right before I left, I found the truck in the garage." Daryl raised an eyebrow, unaware of a truck. "I thought it might still work so I checked the pockets of the walkers outside and found the keys. Well, I was right." She laughed breathlessly. "I drove it back here and I fixed you up real nice and passed plum out!"

Daryl resisted the urge to grin at her nervous chatter, noting that as she grew more anxious, the more breathless her voice got. "Would'na done it better myself," Daryl praised her.

Beth nodded, shrugging nervously, her cheeks pink. "I need to look at the wound," she finally said.

Daryl's guard was up. "Nah, 's fine."

"Lay on your other side, please," Beth said patiently.

The two held eye contact for a good fifteen seconds before Daryl sighed and rolled over. Beth, pleased, crawled over to him on her knees. The graze was on his left side, so once he was on his right side, he was facing her. Daryl lifted his arms above his head to avoid getting in the way of her work. Beth's little knees dug into his sculpted torso, making him stiffen. He wasn't used to being so close to a woman. Before the end of the world, sex and one night stands with easy, overly done-up girls had been his forte. Now, it seemed silly to even think about women. Survival took priority.

That didn't stop his sexual desires from driving him mad sometimes. It had been a long time.

Beth's fingers fluttered like butterflies around the tape and gauze. Daryl watched her as she carefully examined the wound, seeing the intensity and concentration, as well as the nervousness. Undoubtedly, it had been a lot easier to touch his naked stomach when he had been passed out the night before. Now that he was awake and watching her, she was clearly a little uncomfortable.

"Wow," Beth said. "It looks a lot better. _A lot _better. How are you feeling?"

"You asked me that already," Daryl said gruffly.

Beth's doe-eyes flickered nervously toward him. "Right, sorry."

"S'alright." Daryl was silent for a moment as she carefully changed the bandage, avoiding his gaze. "How are _you _feeling?"

Beth's eyes met his again for a millisecond before she focused on the wound again. She didn't answer.

It was going to be a long day.

…

The day had passed in a blur of laying on the blankets in the abandoned box truck and stumbling painfully into the woods to piss, Beth trilling about how he _really _should not go out into the woods alone. Daryl all but had to tie her to the damn truck to keep her from following him. He would do a lot of things in this world: kill, steal, go weeks without showering... but he would absolutely, positively not let this little girl see him zip down his pants and pull out his dick.

Never.

Now, night was beginning to fall again. Beth had practically forced two cans of food down Daryl's throat, claiming that he needed his strength. Daryl just saw that as a waste of a can, since he would have been perfectly fine on one. "Trust me," she had said for the billionth time. "You'll heal quicker."

So, Daryl and eaten a can of green beans and a can of peaches. He could probably eat every last can of food they had, but he wasn't going to tell Beth that because she'd probably insist that he did. To build his strength back up. Daryl rolled his eyes. _Women. _

He watched interestedly as she unfolded and refolded one of the blankets she had slept on, making it out to be a perfect pallet on the floor of the truck. "I keep waitin' for the owners of this truck to come back," she said, glancing up at him from her handiwork.

"Doubt that," Daryl said, pushing himself up from his pile of blankets. "If someone was campin' out here we'da found more supplies."

Beth was quiet again, as she laid down on her blankets. "It's startin' to get cold out," she remarked.

Daryl grunted.

Beth giggled.

Daryl quirked an eyebrow. "Somethin' funny?"

He could just make out the shaking of her head. "No," she replied. "You're just a horrible conversationalist."

"Can't use those kind of words if you 'spect me to listen," he answered, knowing exactly what she meant – it was nothing he hadn't heard before – but wanting to hear her laugh again. Without all the kids at the prison running around, or his easy banter with Glen or Rick or Carol, things were starting to feel endlessly gloomy in the little box truck they resided in.

"My point exactly," Beth said, laughing some more. She stopped abruptly, suddenly serious. "Daryl?"

He waited for her to continue, the complete darkness of the box truck suddenly making him uneasy. There wasn't a moon tonight. He had to remind himself that the doors were locked and they were in an enclosed space. There were no walkers in there with them. They were not threatened. He was safe. Beth was safe. They were both safe.

"Do ya... do ya think the others made it? Rick, Carl? Glen? Maggie?" Everybody else's names went unsaid, but still hung in the air like smoke.

"They're strong. Carl. Maggie. They got outta there. Glen was on that bus. Rick is with Carl. The kid'll take care of him 'til he's better."

Beth struggled to keep her voice even. "What about..." She took a quivering breath. "What about Judith?"

And there it was, the question Daryl had been dreading since he had woken up that morning. He wasn't going to sugarcoat it for Beth, but he wasn't going to be insensitive either. "I... I don' know. I sure as hell hope so."

"I shoulda went and got her," Beth squeaked. "As soon as those shots were fired, I shoulda went and found her."

"Stop that," Daryl said. "You know we needed ya out there."

"I just can't get the idea of it outta my head, ya know? I keep wonderin' if someone got her and they have her or if she was taken from them by a walker. Or if someone _didn't _get her and she was all alone and cryin' and a walker found her-"

"Ya can't think like that, Beth-"

"I can't help it!" Beth said loudly. "She so little, she woulda been torn to shreds!"

Daryl fell back onto his pillows, unsure of what to say. Everything she was saying were very real possibilities. He couldn't say, _Nah, we'll find her, _without there being a chance that he was lying to her. So all he could say was, "I know, I know..."

"I'm not her mother, but I feel like I could have been-"

"As far as I'm concerned, you're her mom." Daryl definitely wasn't lying there.

"No, Lori was. Lori will always be her mom." Daryl couldn't decide if Beth sounded sad or not.

"The kid never even saw her face – you're her mom. You've been her mama since day one."

Beth was quiet, and Daryl hoped she wasn't crying. He couldn't deal with that.

"We 'preciated it, I hope ya know," he finally said, deciding he should at least attempt at saying something to make her feel better. "Would'na been able to take care of that baby without ya."

"It still wasn't enough. Nothing will ever be enough."

"Don't say that."

He laid there for a long time, listening to her breathing, remembering how young she seemed back at the farm. Daryl had only seen her a few times, laying in that bed, staring blearily up at the ceiling, the hopelessness in her eyes as clear as day. He wondered if she was falling back into her old patterns, mentally swearing that he would do everything in his power not to let that happen. A nagging voice in his head told him that "his power" might not ever be enough, not if that baby had been torn to shreds by walkers.

He felt a lump form in his throat. Judith.

"We'll find the others," he finally said. "As soon as you let me outta this damn truck, we'll start lookin'. Can't be far."

Beth was sleeping.

**A/N:**

**So yeah. Pretty boring. Gives a little insight into Daryl's mind, sort of... Kind of? If you can't tell, he's a little confused about Beth. Subconsciously, he can't decide whether shes a girl or a woman. Little bit of foreshadowing. Wink, wink.**

**Let me know what you thought. So close to the rest of the season. SO. EXITED.**


	3. Chapter 3

**The Way That We Rust**

**Daryl Dixon: **

A few days passed, and Beth finally decided that Daryl was well enough to leave the cargo truck. It was a damn shame, Daryl thought, but he knew that it would be too much of a pain in the ass to get it up and running, let alone keep it inconspicuous. It was too dangerous to stay in the truck for too long, anyway. It was only a matter of time before some unneighborly types came along and searched it for supplies. Daryl wanted to avoid any unnecessary confrontations.

At least they had the single-cab truck Beth had managed to snag from the house. It was running _and _less-obvious, so undoubtedly the best choice. It would get them to the little house that Beth had taken the supplies from. Daryl wasn't exactly one-hundred percent, so – though he would never admit it – he was glad he might have a bed to sleep in for a night or two. They would both be able to sleep. The thought made his muscles ache with longing.

They packed up their supplies in silence, and got into the little truck. Daryl was impressed when he saw that it was manual, glancing up at Beth who was pawing through the glove box. She must have felt his gaze on her, because she looked up, blinking. "What?"

Daryl shook his head and jammed the key into the ignition. _Can shoot a gun, can decapitate a walker, can save my sorry ass, and_ _she can drive a stick, _Daryl thought approvingly, wondering why she hadn't been used as anything more than a nanny back at the prison.

Beth had been out of it for the past couple days. Understandable. Worrying about Judith, Daryl supposed. Thinking about her dad. Daryl let her be, knowing that if she wanted to talk, she would talk. He didn't know what he would say to her if he did, but he would listen, and he hoped that would be enough.

They hardly spoke on the way to the house, only when Beth gave Daryl instructions on how to get there. The farther away they got from the cargo truck and the closer they go to the house, Daryl realized just how far Beth travelled to save his life. She ran miles – with walkers lurking in the forest around her – to help him. Nobody had ever done anything like that for him.

He glanced sideways at her, unsure of his feelings at that moment.

Once they reached the house, Daryl noticed that she had shut the gate on her way out. He was once again shocked at her resourcefulness. He knew he shouldn't be surprised; she had spent he last two years of her childhood learning how to survive. She wasn't new at this, and she definitely wasn't incompetant. If that were the case, she would dead.

And Daryl would be alone.

When Daryl parked the truck, Beth opened the door and jumped out. "What are you doing?" Daryl asked quickly, craning his neck to see out the back window for walkers, dumbfounded at the protective wave that washed over him when he saw that she was standing alone in the yard while he was safely in the truck. A disturbing image flooded into his mind: a walker ambling out from around the house, its decaying teeth sinking into Beth's delicate flesh, the sound of her scream filling Daryl's ears...

Daryl snapped out of it, his muscles tense, prepared to attack.

"Opening the garage," Beth said, unafraid, the knife on her waisteband bouncing up and down as she strode away from the truck and heaving up the garage door. She waved him in. Daryl, annoyed that the idea of this little blonde girl being in danger could make his body more adrenaline charged than a herd of walkers ever would, drove the truck forward, into the garage. Beth pulled it shut behind as he turned off the vehicle and stepped out.

"Aren't we lucky to have found this place?" Beth asked as they entered the home.

Daryl did a quick sweep kitchen and the living room. As he made his way down the hallway and into one of the bedrooms, he said, "You found it."

Beth wasn't behind him anymore.

He spun around, waiting to hear her scream or cry. He listened for the sound of a walker tearing into her, eating her alive. He all but ran back down the hallway and found her standing in the living room, examining a bookcase. Daryl's body seemed to deflate with relief and he rubbed his eyes tiredly, not in the mood for this post traumatic stress shit.

"What did you say?" she asked absentmindedly, looking back at him.

"I said that you found it," Daryl said. "Did a damn good job of locking it up, too," he praised gruffly. Beth looked proud.

"You might wanna keep lookin' just in case. I'll help you."

So the two scoped out the house just for good measure, and when Daryl was finally sure that there were no walkers hiding in closets or showers or beneath beds, he checked all the locks and drew all the curtains. While he did this, Beth performed a more thorough search of the house for supplies. Daryl found her in the bathroom, going through a cabinet beneath the sink.

When she saw him, she stood, holding a bottle of shampoo. "Look what I found."

Daryl quirked an eyebrow.

"You should let me wash your hair," Beth said authoritively. Daryl stared at her in disbelief, wondering how the fuck she got that idea. "Have you looked in the mirror?" she asked, gesturing torward the mirror behind the sink.

Daryl glanced sideways at himself in the mirror. Blood matted his too-long hair here and there, there was a bit of mud stuck on once side of his head, and there was a large twig – or a small branch – tangled stupidly in a lock of his hair, making him wonder if it had been there since the attack on the prison. That was besides the point. He looked ridiculous, it was as simple as that.

Daryl was the last person to care about what he looked like. However, he had one rule regarding personal hygiene: if he was so dirty that he looked like a total dipshit, it was time to bathe. .

"We ain't got any water. Not enough to be taking showers, anyway," he said, ripping the twig from his hair and throwing it in the sink.

Beth grinned, shaking her head and stepping aside for him to look in the cabinet. He crouched down so he could see. The cabinet, from front to back, was filled with jugs of water. Daryl hadn't seen anything more beautiful since the time Merle had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm when they were kids.

The previous homeowners must have been hiding it from ransackers, like themselves. Beth's grin widened and she nudged Daryl out of the way with her foot. He stood, wincing as pain shot down his side. "I'll clean up the wound too," Beth said, noticing the pain that showed on his face. "We can spare one gallon of water to get clean. Go get a chair."

Daryl sat the crossbow down just outside the bathroom and stalked back into the kitchen, wondering when he starting taking orders from little girls. Not only that, when did he start letting them wash his hair? He might as well be getting a damned pedicure. He felt stupid as he dragged a chair from the shabby breakfast table in the kitchen back down the hallway and into the bathroom.

He knew deep down that Beth probably just wanted to feel like she was accomplishing something, so he was going to allow her to wash his hair and clean his wound and take care of him real nice. If there was any feeling Daryl understood completely, it was the desire to be useful. He wasn't going to deprive her of that.

But the moment she tried to give him a sponge bath, he would be putting a stop to that shit.

Beth set the chair of up so Daryl would sit with his back toward the sink. "Shirt off," she said as she plugged the sink and poured a gallon of water in it. Daryl tugged the ratty old shirt over his head and threw it to the floor. Beth pulled a towel from the rack and set it on his lap.

"Lean back," she said, pushing his shoulder gently. Daryl felt awkward, but oddly relaxed as Beth rummaged in the medicine cabinet and produced a cup. She dunked it in the water, filling it up, and then poured it over his head. Daryl didn't remember the last time he had washed his hair. There was something so unnatural about the mundane task of washing one's hair. Keeping clean was a necessary from another life. Now it was simply a luxury and Daryl almost felt guilty for indulging.

He watched Beth as she dampened his hair, her little arms reaching across his face to reach the back of his head. She squeezed some shampoo into her hands and rubbed them together, creating a lather. She massaged it into his scalp. The smell of strawberries engulfed him. He grimaced. Beth smiled. "This is going to be the best you've smelled in years," Beth teased.

"Try my whole life," Daryl responded dryly.

Beth giggled. "Yes, this does smell better than _Old Spice, _doesn't it?"

Daryl scoffed. "_Old Spice? _Nah, Merle wore that when he was trying to impress women. Makes me wanna puke."

"What soap did you used to use?"

"Who said I ever used soap?"

Beth laughed some more and Daryl was pleased that he could make her smile. Of course he had used soap, but the idea of him _not _using soap seemed to amuse her, so he would roll with it. He hoped she knew he was joking, but didn't have the energy to make sure.

"I don't think I've ever seen you with clean hair," Beth mused.

"That's not fair," Daryl said, a corner of his mouth turning upward into a hardly-smile.

"Really!" Beth insisted, her face alight with amusment. Her cheeks were faintly pink and Daryl stomach seemed to tighten. He hoped he wasn't getting sick. "I hardly ever saw you at the prison. The only times I saw you were after you got back from a run with Michonne, when you'd come to see Judith." Beth was quiet then, and Daryl was saddened at the thought of the gurgling baby. "I miss her," Beth said finally.

Daryl wished there was something he could say. He wanted to say something to comfort her, but there was a block in his mind that kept him from speaking. What did people say when they were trying to comfort others? Daryl had never been comforted a day in his life. Not by his mother, father, or Merle. The only thing that had ever brought him anything close to comfort was his crossbow. _Like a damn teddy bear, _Daryl realized. How pathetic.

How did one vocally comfort another?

He had heard the way Beth sang to Judith when she was crying, but he was hardly going to start singing. Plus, Beth wasn't a baby. She was a woman. Girl. Whatever. Maybe all she needed was a companion. Maybe his presence would be enough. Daryl hoped so.

Beth continued scrubbing at his scalp, looking thoughtful. Either Beth had lost track of time or Daryl's hair was really dirty, because she seemed to go on for awhile. Daryl didn't mind; it felt good. Better than anything he had felt in a long time. The last time something felt this good was when some random Woodbury bitch from the prison sucked his dick in the showers. It was a half-assed blow job. She had been stumbling-drunk – probably wouldn't have been very good even if she wasn't – and before Daryl could finish, Carl came in to take a piss. _That _had been awkward. Poor kid.

Daryl almost forgot what it felt like to have a really good blow job. The kind that were full of oh-fucks and groans. The kind where he was certain she would gag. The thought almost made him grin. His sudden good mood was immediately dampened when he realized he was comparing hair washing to blow jobs. It was dampened further when he realized he would probably never have a blow job better than hair washing again. Daryl sighed.

"What?" Beth asked, her big blue eyes meeting his. If only she knew.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his pants. "Nothin'."

Beth shrugged, pouring some of the water from the sink over his hair to wash out the soap. "If you say so."

Once all the soap was washed out, Beth dried his hair quickly with a towel. Daryl shook it out, making Beth giggle. "You're like a wet dog." Daryl shook his still-dripping hair in her direction. Beth pushed him away, shaking her head, a grin still on her face. "Go do something useful, Dixon."

Daryl snorted and walked out of the bathroom, a tiny smirk on his face, feeling cleaner than he had in months.

**A/N:**

**Alright. So TWD season finale triggered my motivation to write some more for you lovely people. **

**As you can see, Daryl's mental capacity is rather...stunted. I tried to convey the stunted mental capacity through thoughts rather than have Daryl think something like "my mental capacity is stunted." Eh. I don't really know what I'm trying to say. I know that Daryl is a VEEEERY important character to you guys, so if you think I should do something different mindset-wise, let me know. **

**I always assumed Daryl had a sarcastic inner-monologue, so any sarcasm I've created is meant to keep me interested in writing him. I hope you guys are okay with that, haha.**

**Anyway! I know Bethyl is still in its early stages and I hope this will help hold you guys over.**

**Review and let me know what you think!**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Way That We Rust**

**Chapter 4:**

It was eerily silent. The hairs on the back of Daryl's neck prickled as he pushed the door open to the little house. He had just gotten back from a hunt, and there were two rabbits tied to his belt loop. He closed the door behind him, making sure that it clicked shut. He walked slowly into the house, crossbow at the ready. The setting sun shined through the back windows, casting an orange glow across everything in the living room and into the kitchen.

A horrible feeling settled over him. It was entirely too quiet. Nothing was ever completely quiet. Not humans, not animals, not walkers. That was one of Daryl's rules. Silence was bad. Silence meant he was alone. Never in his life would he ever cherish silence, not after the end of the world.

He walked down the hallway that led to the back bedroom. The farther he got, the more tension he seemed to feel. The door to the bedroom was cracked, just enough for someone to slip in and slip out. His heart slammed in his chest and his throat started to close. Where was Beth? Had she been taken? Had she left him?

The idea of her leaving him scared him even more than the idea of her being kidnapped. At least if she was taken, he would be able to get her back. He pushed open the door, and was relieved to see her laying on the bed.

His relief was replaced with horror when he saw there was a knife protruding from her chest.

Daryl dropped the crossbow at the door and fell to his knees at the edge of the bed. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't breathing. He rested a hand on her arm and found that she was ice cold. Daryl's heart was beating faster than ever now, knowing that she was going to change any minute. He would have to kill her again and he didn't know if he could-

Daryl sat straight up on the couch in the living room, grasping at his chest. He instinctively reached for the crossbow that was laying on the floor beside the sofa, but froze when his stomach started to turn. He was off the couch in an instant, yanking open the sliding glass door that led to the back yard. Stupidly, he strode into the middle of the yard without a second glance, where he vomited in to the dead grass.

If throwing up wasn't bad enough, he was then hit by the familiar scent of a walker. Daryl swore loudly as two dead hands gripped his shoulder. He could feel the teeth graze his shirt, but he whipped around and slammed the walker to the ground, holding it down by it's shoulders. Still groggy and disoriented from sleep, Daryl stared at it for a moment as it snapped and growled at him. How the fuck did it get in here?

Then Daryl remembered. Before he and Beth had fallen asleep that night, he had explored the perimeter. He must have forgotten to close the gate to the back yard all the way. It was so stupid and careless and irresponsible that Daryl wanted to shoot himself in the eye with the damned crossbow. Speaking of the crossbow, it was still laying by the sofa...

Daryl swore loudly again when a second pair of dead hands gripped his shoulders from behind him. This was it. He was done. He was sandwiched between two walkers and who the hell knew how many others were in the surrounding area. Daryl knew that one day he would die, but he didn't think it would be because of his own carelessness.

He heard the sound of footsteps on dead grass to his right and assumed it was another walker, but he then heard the sloshy crunching sound of a knife entering the walker's skull that was on top of him. The walker rolled off of him just as the walker below him craned its neck in attempt to sink its teeth into Daryl's collar bone.

Then, Beth was straddling Daryl at mid-back and a knife was in the walker's right temple. She leaned down, her voice right in his ear. "Are you okay?" she asked softly. The world seemed to freeze in that moment and Daryl could feel every bit of her pressed against him.

When Daryl didn't answer, Beth climbed off of him, wiping the walker goo on her jeans. Daryl stood up, brushing his hands off. He felt idiotic and incapable. He had just had his life saved by Beth... again. This time it wasn't because he was injured, it was because of his own stupidity and lack of preparedness.

What was this little girl doing to him?

…

Daryl hissed, holding onto the counter he leaned against, as Beth dabbed at his still-healing wound with some alcohol. She rolled her eyes. "Don't be a baby," she said, glancing up at him. "You've been in more pain than this." Daryl's grip tightened on the counter. If only she knew how true that really was. He was sure that she had seen his scars before... How could she not? She had seen him without a shirt numerous times over the past week or so. He just hoped that she wasn't trying to figure out where the scars came from. Daryl wanted to avoid any conversations that might make her more concerned for him than she already was.

"What were you doing out there?" Beth asked. "Without a weapon?"

"Puking," Daryl said, unashamed.

Beth looked up at him again as she tore off a piece of tape with her teeth. Daryl watched her lick her lips as she taped a new piece of gauze over his wound. The bottom one pouted out more than the top one. Right now it was particularly red and swollen, like she had been biting it. "Are you sick?" she asked.

"M'fine," Daryl said, forcing himself to look away from her doubtful face. "Bad dreams, s'all."

Beth looked sad. "I get those too."

He wished she wouldn't try to relate to him, because surely she had not been having nightmares about his dead body sprawled out on a bed. Daryl shrugged, trying to make out her expression in the darkness of the kitchen. There were only a few candles lit around them, enough to illuminate her face. Without thinking, he said, "About your dad?"

The guilt he felt over Hershel's death was overwhelming. Whenever he thought about it, he felt like he was being cracked with a thousand whips. A million whips. One slash hardly began to describe how incredibly guilty he felt over the old man's death. Beth met his gaze levelly, those big blue eyes reflecting the flame of a candle. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's about Maggie. Judith. Sometimes other things."

Daryl was quiet.

"Only thing is, I'm not dumb enough to stumble out into the yard and get attacked by walkers after I've had a bad dream," Beth said, shoving his shoulder lightly, trying to lighten the mood. Daryl admired her ability to see the funny things in a horrible situation, admired the way that her eyes sparkled when she smiled. It was rare in this life to know someone's whose smile met their eyes.

Daryl tugged his shirt back on and started toward the living room to retrieve the crossbow. He needed to go make sure that gate was shut before he tried to get back to sleep. Beth followed him into the living room and leaned against the wall near the hallway. Just as Daryl was about to head back outside, Beth said, "Don't worry, you don't have to admit I saved you."

Daryl glanced back at her, hoping she didn't want to have some emotional heart-to-heart about life and death. When he saw that she was grinning, he was relieved. She was right. He didn't want to admit that she had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Daryl didn't know it yet, but Beth Greene was going to save more than just his life. She was going to save his soul.

…

Beth liked watching him sleep. It was strange, she was well aware. It might even be mildly creepy. But there was something so fascinating about watching Daryl Dixon lay completely still, his eyes shut, his breathing deep and even. He was sprawled out across the too-small couch, one arm tossed above his head and hanging off the arm rest, one leg falling off the side with his heel resting against the floor.

Back at the prison, Beth used to wonder if Daryl ever actually slept. He had his own cell, and Beth had walked past it numerous times, shushing Judith. Whenever Judith was fussy, Beth had searched him out. Not because she wanted him to take the crying baby, but because the hunter's mere presence seemed to sooth her. Therefore, soothing Beth. Daryl always had a sheet draped across the bars, so she had never actually seen him in his cell, but his scent radiated from it. His scent alone often comforted Judith, just as it did to many other members of the prison. Woodsy, musty... blood and sweat.

In this new life, that was the cologne of style. The smell of survival. If you could survive, you were stylish, and Daryl survived better than anyone Beth knew. One day, the legend of Daryl Dixon would be told around campfires.

But not many people would be able to say they'd seen him sleep.

Daryl turned his head groggily against the morning sun that shined through the windows, throwing an arm across his eyes. He was handsome in a rugged way, that was for sure. With his strong arms and sculpted chest and torso, who wouldn't think so? Not only that, he kept people safe. What was more sexy than a man who could look after his own?

Beth's cheeks heated up at the very thought of it.

All the women at the prison whispered about him as they cleaned clothes or chopped up vegetables for dinner. When Daryl walked by as they were killing walkers at the fence, their stabs would become more forceful with hopes that they would impress him. Daryl never seemed to notice.

Beth knew he was going to wake up soon and did not want to explain her fascination with his sleeping, so she stood up and hurried into the kitchen. Beth had a feeling Daryl knew she was there – even in his sleep. Daryl knew everything. Beth thought he would feel less weird if she acted like it never happened.

Everyone from the prison had weird little comforts that nobody dared to comment on or make fun of. Carl and his father's sheriff's hat. Glenn and his compass. Michonne and her sword. Daryl and his crossbow. For Beth, it had been Judith. Judith was completely oblivious to the horror that followed them. Now, Judith was gone and Beth was alone. So watching someone so at peace – especially someone like Daryl Dixon – without a care in the world of what was going on around them made Beth feel a little better.

She cracked open a can of peaches and poured it into a bowl, setting it on the table for Daryl aimlessly, her mind still haunted by the image of him squished between two walkers the night before. Beth had heard the sliding glass door open and knew that it was Daryl. She wondered why he was going outside and if he would need backup, so she grabbed his knife that he had insisted she keep on the bedside table in the back bedroom where she slept and ran to the backyard.

Beth didn't think. She acted. The idea of watching Daryl Dixon being bit by a walker terrified her so much that every thought in her head disappeared, replaced with instinct and adrenaline. She only realized what she had done when she found herself straddling him in the middle of the grassy yard, her hand shaking and her teeth digging into her bottom lip.

Beth shook the idea of a dead Daryl out of her head, knowing that he didn't spend his time paralyzed with fear over her possible death. Daryl wasn't scared of anything.

**A/N:**

**Alright, so there's clearly a little bit of tension building between the two. Right now is still sort of awkward. Daryl is adjusting to life without Team Prison around to back him up (example: getting attacked by walkers in the back yard). **

**There's a lot of thinking about life and death. Beth is a little more aware of her attraction toward Daryl, but Daryl is having a hard time processing his toward her. He has a hard time processing her all together.**

**Again, let me know how you think I'm doing with their characters. Any quotes you liked?**

**Since Bethyl is a newer ship, I want to know what you guys want out of this story. Because at this point, I'm sort of at a loss. I want to write what you guys want, so if you have any ideas feel free to message me or leave it in the reviews. I read all of them. I know that there's some people who are taking requests on Tumblr for one-shots, etc. So maybe I'll take requests from you guys and put it all into one story. Let me know!**


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